


Pas De Deux and Pastels

by LadyParongsny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Multi, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyParongsny/pseuds/LadyParongsny
Summary: Theodore Nott is a dancer at a prep school for the arts. Luna Lovegood is in the fine art department at the same school. When their paths cross, inspiration hits them in ways they don't expect nor realize.Non- magical AU. First Person POV.





	Pas De Deux and Pastels

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I make no profit from this story. Also not mine: Titanic. The poetry of Rumi. Singing in the Rain. Lindsey Sterling and OK GO. 
> 
> Also, If you are better versed in universes such as these and I got something wrong let me know. I wrote this because it was in my head and I loved it. I share this in case you'll dig it too. If I misrepresent ballet or anything else, I will happily correct it. :)

It's the way she moves across the campus lawn as if she is lighter than air, is as if there is some secret magical choreography only she knows that takes her from the art building to the lake at the edge of campus. This blonde mystical fae creature moves with such ease and grace it seems like some kind of sorcery since she is carrying so much in her thin arms. 

  


I have seen girls who danced before they learned to speak in full sentences who walked with less grace in their steps. No, this girl isn’t graceful through training and precision. She’s naturally moving with finesse, like a bird, or doe, or dragonfly. Creatures such as this require only to exist to be elegant.  She makes me hear Tchaikovsky. She makes me want to dance. She makes me hear Tchaikovsky and not want to cringe or roll my eyes. I haven’t  _ wanted  _ to dance in longer than I can remember, I just danced. I dance because it’s all I have ever done but the way she moves makes me  _ want _ to dance. 

  


I don’t even know her name. I haven’t heard her voice. I only know the way she moves and that alone moves me. 

  


“Nott! We have rehearsal in thirty minutes! Move your ass!” 

I rip my eyes from the window I’m looking through and tear my headphones off my head. “Draco, will you kindly fuck off? I will be there.” 

  


“On time is late, my dear Theodore, and I will not be truant on account of you again. My aunt is coming in as a guest observer from Juilliard. It is pertinent we are impeccable because she is insane and extremely particular. Don’t think either of us will get any special treatment because I’m related to her. Quite the contrary.” 

  


“You aren’t chained to me, Malfoy. Go to rehearsal now for all I give a fuck. I’ll meet you there. I don’t need her special treatment or your ‘best friend benefits’, as you delusionally see them.” 

  


I like the air quotes. I find comfort in them. It’s an added bonus that it annoys everyone around me when I do it. 

  


“You are in a right shit mood. You better snap out of it or you won’t be called to front. What has gotten into you lately? Or is it _ who _ you haven’t gotten into lately? Are you and Daphne still fighting?”

  


“We broke up and if you waggle your eyebrows at me again, I will burn them off.” 

  


“Ok. Well that explains a lot. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. The last thing I need is to be on Snape’s shit list.. Or my Aunt Bella’s for that matter. I wouldn't want to make Thanksgiving even more unpleasant this year.”

  


The door slammed and Draco was gone. When my eyes returned to gaze outside, the ethereal blonde artist was gone, replaced by a small silhouette that could only be her on the other side of the lake, blocked by canvas on an easel as she flailed around it. I have danced my entire life and watched the precision of trained ballerinas who have practiced all around the world, yet the way she moves catches my breath in a way unlike anything I have ever experienced. I can watch her all day but instead I want to take this feeling and I want to dance. I throw on my headphones and swirl my thumb around my ipod until I find Lindsey Sterling. I turn it all the way up, grab my bag and leave my dorm for rehearsal. 

  
  


****************************************************************************************************************************************************

  


Blue. Blue is such an interesting color. If you look, like really look, blue is all around. Shades of blue surround me but I can’t quite get the blue I need on my palate. That one is too much like the lake, too dark and murky with hints of grey and green. This one is too much like how the sky was last Thursday after lunch, the way the overcast swirled with the air to leave it looking almost yellow which didn’t seem to make sense. I was able to match the acid wash denim of my overalls this morning. Sure, that was pencil and this is oil and right now I want to work with oil. 

  


As I drop to the ground and feel the grass on what flesh is exposed- mainly my appendages- my eyes widen in frustration up at the clouds. I’ve been blocked for weeks on this one. I see it in my head. That’s not the problem. My mind is clear and focused, it’s the materials and my hands. These hands. Something must be getting scrambled in my nervous system from the route the idea takes from my brain to my hands. I look at my hands as I throw them up into my line of vision. 

  


“Work! Do what I need you to do. You’re  _ my _ hands. You have no power over me. I should be the one with power over you.” 

  


I don’t hear my voice over the music clambering in my ears. I don't care if anyone else heard it unless it’s my hands. I need my hands to listen. As I breathe deep.  Inhale: chest, upper belly, lower belly. Hold. Exhale: chest, upper belly, lower belly. Hold. I rise to my feet. I will get my vision within my sights and onto this canvas. 

  


I look at the piece again. My mind scrambles to fill in the spaces laid blank at the moment. In my mind's eye they are vibrant, tactile and rich. My lids close in front of my eyes as I flow to the music radiating in my ears hoping it will shake my vision into my fingertips to the brush and ultimately to the canvas. 

  


After about twenty minutes I have made some progress. There is a dance in place here but also a science. The science is in the details. It took three tries to get to the blue in my brain _ the _ blue.  _ My _ blue. It’s not quite perfect but it’s close and I need this piece done so close will do. The dance is in the process. I don’t know much about the technicalities of dance but I know movement. At least I know the relationship of movement to my body. My body and movement are lovers and music is our language, our conversation, our love. The canvas is the documentation and product of such a love.  My brain has no reign here. It’s done its deed and downloaded the general idea of where I want this to go into my body. Now my body just moves. I flow in and out of movement to the beat. I revolve around the canvas to the melody that plays in the same way the planets rotate the sun. My body moves in waves like the ocean. 

  


When my brush hits the canvas it dances in different movements on canvas. It flows like water moving slowly from a stream. It hits in sharp staccato. It’s organic and pure chaos. It is lyrical patterns. It is still and punctuated movements of one at a time strokes of the brush. It is as rhythmic as the music. It is as rhythmic as the cycles of life and the seasons. I move to the rhythm until my hands and body and soul are tired and the sun is setting. I have been at this for hours and now it’s dark and I can feel impending rain in the air as it caresses my skin. Shit. My painting is wet and I will need to make trips to the studio storage if I don’t want to damage it. I take it first and plan to come back for my easel, palette, paints, bag and brushes. 

  


When I return after the second trip with the easel it is dusk,it is pouring. Perfect timing, Gaia. The piece is safe but my brushes, palettes, and hands could use a washing the rain can provide. I dance down to the lake. The more I move my hands the cleaner they will get and I’m glad I don’t need to mess with the lake to get my tools and I clean. Color fades from my fingers by the time I reach my things and they are already losing their hues as well. I fill my hands with them and turn as I see it in the distance. A figure. Across the lawn and in the empty visitor lot a figure is leaping in the dark, in the rain. I feel pulled to it. 

  


The way they dance in the rain has me feeling the way I feel when I dance with my work. There is more precision present in this, it’s been proficiently practiced but under all that is a layer that I can tell is a primal instinct to just  move. I watch the conversation between their body and the movement. His body. As I get closer I realise it’s a he or at least I assume him to be a male dancer. I am a few feet away now and I don't think he sees me. He is illuminated by the lights of the parking lot and I am hidden by the shadows of the night, but also his eyes are closed. His eyes are closed as he grimaces and thrashes his body around violently and beautifully.

  


The movement mingles with his body as the water in the puddles below him dance around his feet. As he moves the rain soaks through his clothes and they cling to his skin and his face slowly moves from a grimace to an expression of ease as he spins and bends and jumps in front of me. I am moved. I can feel his movement under my skin and in my muscles. I feel the emotion in my bones. He is an inspiration. He is art. My spirit is awake. I walk to the abandoned and closed mess hall and to coffee. I’ll be sketching tonight and I need a warm brew to keep me company. 

  


****************************************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


Rehearsal was rehearsal. The usual clusterfuck calamity. Daph and Pans fell all over themselves to impress Draco’s Aunt Bella. It totally threw them off. Parkinson usually has the best form and her turns and landings were off and her entire display fell flat. Greengrass was so determined to be perfect she tripped, twice. Millicent was flawless. She’ll make principal for sure yet my fellow companymen pay her no mind and that is a grave mistake. She will be our shining star and no one will see it coming. Poor Draco practically killed himself and his technique was flawless but his nightmare of a relative and our shit show of a dance instructor almost blatantly and purposely redirected their attention to themselves and their phones during his performance and he wasn’t called to the front at the end even though he deserved it. What fucks. They can’t even see the defeat in his eyes, it's almost cruel. 

  


The man has this responsibility thrusted onto his shoulders to carry on his family’s ballet legacy and he loves it. He loves the legacy, he loves to dance and he’s good. He is damn good and they just don’t see him. He may be a right prick half the time but he is my best friend and I hate to see him beaten and broken like this. Which is why it was so incredibly bittersweet to be called to the front today. Dancing felt different today. It felt flawless and without force. I just let it flow out of me and I finally feel awake but at what cost, because seeing my best friend nursing his bruised spirit doesn’t seem worth it. I seemed to float through the day. I saw her again on my way to dinner. She was still at the lake. She was a vision of creation and movement and beauty, even at a distance.

A familiar tone of condescension comes from Draco, bringing me back to present. 

  


“ Nice smile, Theodore. Still smug about being teacher’s pet today. Not that I hold any envy, it’s just that that smug ass smirk is extremely unbecoming. What- What are you looking at? Oh dear God is that a dying animal flailing about like that? That is insane. Are you looking at that display of lunacy?”

  


“What? No. I was thinking. What were you talking about?” 

  


“ I was  _ saying.  _ The girls found orc sized pointe shoes in the storage closet today so we are going to drown our sorrows from a shit rehearsal with confiscated alcohol we have back in our possession, sneak into the gym after lights out and recreate that ridiculous OK GO video a la pointe on the treadmills. You game?”

  


“That sounds like a recipe for disaster and disfigurement. I’m a hard pass.” 

  


“Your loss.”

  


We walk to our dorm room. He’s talking and I hear him but I’m not listening. I’m not listening in the hallway. I’m not listening at the door. I’m not listening when we get inside. I nod. I grunt. I hear him but I’m not listening. I’m distracted. The day is flashing in slides through my mind. The mundaneness of it. Her. The dancing. Her. Draco going on and on about nothing. Her. Her again. She sprinkles my day with sun rays of her presence. She’s like an inserted slide snuck into an old film reel of my memories, like when people would sneak nudes into film reels. Only this isn’t porn, this is poetry. Visual poetry infiltrating my mundane repetitive days. Who is she? I sarcastically bid Draco ado to his night of shenanigans as he leaves and I throw on my headphones and pick up a book. Since poetry has made a surprise appearance into my hours today, who am I to not keep it going? I ease Rumi off my shelf and open it randomly.  _ Let me be mad. _

         “... O incomparable Giver of life, cut reason loose at last!

  


Let it wander grey-eyed from vanity to vanity.

  


Shatter open my skull, pour in it the wine of madness!

  


Let me be mad, as You; mad with You, with us.

  


Beyond the sanity of fools is a burning desert

Where Your sun is whirling in every atom:

  


Beloved, drag me there, let me roast in Perfection!” 

  


Drag me there. Let me roast. Whirling. I need to whirl. I need to dance. I grab my hoodie I throw my fist clenched around my ipod into my pockets and go. I need to dance this out of my system. I make my way outside. Before I reach the doors out I pass the gym on the way to the south visitor’s parking lot. I hear giggling as the song switches over and I peek through the windowed door. Draco and Blaise are in gigantic pointe shoes, like he said, on a treadmill. Pansy is sitting on the lap of that ridiculous ginger guy from the theater program leaning over to snatch wine away from an also giggling Daphne. There’s the two other theater darlings. Granger is on her phone texting like mad and looking oddly suspicious while Potter is very non discreetly checking out Draco’s ass. Draco will be pleased. He’s been practically in love with him since our first year here and we all saw the messy haired actor in the spring musical. Both thespians are pretty fucking lucky I’m the only observant member of the dance company at the moment as no one else seems to notice their peculiar behavior. I turn to go outside. It’s raining. Perfect. I need to wash this all away. 

  


When I get to the abandoned visitor’s lot, the rain is dropping at a steady rhythm. My earbuds are already in and giving my senses a steady stream of melody. The outside world is shut out and I am in my own bubble. I find a spot to move my body to the rhythm of the rain and the melody of the music and I shut my eyes to fully conceal myself to the outside and I dance. I dance and I am completely unaware of anyone else. Honestly, I don’t much care. It’s just the rain. It’s the rain and I. Behind my closed eyelids I see her. The wild and free creature thrashing by the lake. I move to the beat she inspires in my chest. I don’t even know her name but she has taken up residency in my brain all day and has inspired more movement to flow from my heart to my feet than anything I have ever remembered feeling. Is she even real? How have I never seen her before today? Draco saw her too so she must exist but how have I never noticed such a person before now?  Will I ever see her again? Well, I keep seeing her all day so I wouldn’t be surprised if I see her again. If not with eyes open, at the minimum I will see her with eyes shut. That’s how I dance. I dance with her with my eyes shut. I dance organically and primally and authentically myself. I picture her so easily and I dance with her beautifully. I procrastinate the moment I have to open my eyes and I just keep dancing and I let the music play and I dance. I dance with her. I dance with my eyes forced shut. 

  
  


****************************************************************************************************************************************************

  


The doors to the mess hall are locked for the first time since I have been here. I have snuck down to get food and tea and caffeine at all hours of the night for three years with zero issue. Maybe it’s for the best. Adrenaline already moves through my veins, caffeine being added to the mix would only add adverse effects to my creativity tonight. I have a lemon, a hot plate, a kettle and some bottled water in my room. That will do tonight. 

  


As the citric acid dances in my mug of warm water I think of the man dancing in the rain in the lot. The way he moved was primal, natural, and pure. As the rain added layers of water upon him, I saw him also shedding. What he was shedding I can not be sure but something was leaving his body as he danced and thrashed about. With every move his body seemed to get lighter, it appeared to feel freer to the owner as he moved to the beat only he must have heard. I set my mug down as I sketch vigorously to get down the memory of the vision I just took in before it evaporates into something else forgotten. This is how I preserve the beauty I stumble upon. The rich blues I struggle to replicate. The shape and curve of a squirrel’s tale as it scurries up a large Oak tree. The movement of a man shedding something he no longer needs and leaving it behind in a dark abandoned lot, in the rain. Scattered beauty upon the world that I have, gifted to me by luck and fate. I am a reporter of that beauty and my paint, pastels and pencils are my tools with which I document that beauty. What sounds like ten books falling from the sky outside my dorm room door catches my attention. The door swings open as light illuminates the figure in the frame. Wet red hair and a stink of schnapps blows into my room.  

“ Luna! Sketch me like one of your French girls!” 

  


It’s my best friend Ginevra. She thinks she’s hilarious and she’s right. One of the things I cherish most about her aside from her drive and her fire, is her humor. I listen to her talk about a play she is working on with her department for hours while I sketch in pencil and eventually move on to watercolor to capture the memory in the most perfect aesthetic possible. She talks about being an understudy and how she’s been robbed. She talks about the script she’s been working on since first year and how it’s almost finished. I demand to read the finished result because what I’ve read so far has been brilliant. She’s a talented playwright and actress and in my opinion a triple threat. The girl can write, act, and will physically fight anyone who underestimates her. She starts to talk about one of our mutual friends. One of the stars of the production. 

  


“She thinks no one notices the way she looks at the dance professor but we all see it. I don’t know what she sees in  _ him _ , exactly, but there is definitely something going on with her and Sna-  Lun, that is gorgeous! The musical is  _ Singing In The Rain _ . We must use this in our promotional materials. It can be a cross departmental collaboration.”

  


“Gin, a collaboration is already happening. We make the sets as volunteer hours. This piece is different. I’m sorry. I just can’t see it diluted and mass produced. It’s too important.”

  


“ You say that about all your pieces.”

  


“ This is different.”  And it is. This is different. This is so very different. 

  
  


A week passes and I make the mistake of working on the rain dancing piece in class. Flitwick sees it and  convinces me to display it at the art showing we are having in the main lobby this week. I hesitate. This piece feels a little too vulnerable, a little too raw and I’m instantly possessive of it. This is my precious memory of beauty and transformation capsulized. If it’s mass consumed is it less magical? Does it mean less if more share the beauty? I decide, after a lot of thought, that no, no it doesn’t. More witnesses to beauty does not in fact lessen the beauty itself. That’s not what art is about. Art should be shared and witnessed and consumed if not for any other reason than to breed and inspire the creation of more art. I witnessed art in that dance, in that rain, in that lot. If not for that art, this art would not exist. As I affix it to its spot in the gallery area of the art showing I ponder what art will come of eyes seeing this piece, in this spot, on this day. I hope with every cell that trembles in anticipation in my body that I will get the gift of witnessing that manifestation somehow. 

  


***************************************************************************************************************************************************

  


Time passes slowly and quickly all at once. It’s been a week since I saw the blonde being by the lake. I find my gaze looking for her whenever I walk around campus and if it wasn’t for that moment Draco mentioned her that day, I would have already convinced myself she was a figment of my imagination. I would excuse her away as some hereditary hallucination I must have inherited from my insane father. Yet, even with her being real, as fast as she entered my awareness of her even existing she was impossible to spot just as fast. I found myself making excuses to wander to the art wing of campus for no reason at all. No blonde, graceful,gorgeous, fae creature. Not once. I wander back in the direction of my dorm and I see a flash of bright hair in my peripheral vision and for a moment I hold on to hope that it’s her. It’s a pointy face I recognize anywhere, the look of suspicion on his face is also familiar but there is something new there I can’t place. 

  


“ Malfoy, you look like you want to avoid being spotted. Curses. Foiled again.” 

  


“ You always think you’re so adorably clever, Theo. I assure you. You are not.” 

  


The surprise and crimson tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks fade as he talks. “ If you must be nosey I was helping the musical misfits with choreography. A favor Snape asked me to do for him personally.”

  


Sure. Seems legit. We have helped that lot in the past, but something seems off. Draco is giving the look he has when he’s lying and not only is his expression betraying him but his usually perfect hair and clothing are also askew and there looks to be more hands on choreography in this production than anything we have ever helped with in previous shows by the look of him. We turn to leave the theater doors and as we walk a few feet away I hear them open again only to turn and see the star of the show, Potter, who looks equally disheveled, standing in the doorway. Draco does his best portrayal of a guy who doesn’t give a shit, but as we both turn to walk away I see the smug smirk out of the corner of my eye. Good for him. I doubt this will put an end to the flirting and obnoxious competition between the two. If only this will just make it worse. 

  


As we walk, we pass through the main lobby and I see sculptures and framed art that usually do not occupy this space. A sign to my left says this is a pop up gallery from the art department. Instead of turning in the direction of our dorm, I stall and head in further to see if I can pick up any clues of the blonde from last week. I skip the statues all together and look only for canvas, even though I'm not sure what I'm looking for. It's not as if a neon sign will appear above a piece saying “ This is it. She made this one.” 

  


Deep down I know I won't find her in the art itself but I secretly hope she's here working at some capacity some how. What I didn't expect was to find myself in the art. A few feet from my face I see a silhouette I recognize in a scene I very much remember. Black and grey lines and shapes make up the figure in what looks like a photograph of that night I danced with the blonde fae in my mind, in the rain, in the lot. Upon closer inspection it's revealed as a sketch not a photograph but what really makes the piece come alive is the pops of soft color that surround the figure in a rainbow of watercolor and rain and light. Time stops as I stare at this work. I found her. Yet, it appears she found me first. I know this must be her. My eyes fall to the small strip of paper below the piece.  **_Movement Moves Memory- Luna Lovegood_ ** . Her name is Luna Lovegood and I have to really find her, not just her work, or her name, but her. 

  


****************************************************************************************************************************************************

  


The light is shining through the windows; it illuminates the art that sprinkles the lobby foyer. Each of us has taken a shift to stand watch in case anyone has questions or feedback. Some people just want to have company and someone to talk to and I’m happy to oblige. I took an extra shift because I had been craving talking about art and I wanted to see all the pieces my peers crafted. As I round the corner I see the figure in my sketch mirroring the sketch itself in parallel perfection. The dancer sees the dance. The artist is witnessing my art that manifested from their art. As the space closes between us I wonder if I should let it lie or if a conversation is something that should be encouraged. I decide on the latter as monarch butterflies inhabit my abdomen and fly about furiously. 

  


“ A title is always the hardest part. I still don’t know if it quite fits the magic of the movement.” He turns to meet me and my eyes lock with the blue. My blue. The blue I have tried to capture. The blue I can’t quite describe nor capture just right in any medium. His eyes capture it perfectly, so I suppose it’s not my blue at all. His blue. He smiles and the blue shines as mouth curls in a smile and I think he whispers “fae?” but it’s unclear and it’s more of an exhale than a word.

  


“ Titles are tricky but this one fits fine. If you’re still unsure what about… What about “Pas De Deux and Pastels”? A dance with two people. I was dancing with a partner in my mind. Was that presumptuous? I assume this is me. In the visitor lot. Last week?”

  


“ If that was you dancing in the rain, then yes, it was you.” I feel the blood rush to my face as I honestly confess I watched his vulnerable dance that he shared with someone else. I feel foolish. I feel a gentle knuckle lift my chin up to meet his perfect blue eyes. “ I saw you that day. I saw you dancing with your easel by the lake. The way you moved was something I have never witnessed before. You made me want to dance. You inspired this dance. In my mind I was dancing with you. A beautiful fae creature I hadn’t really met. Luna. Your name is Luna?” I nod. “ Theodore Nott.” And he extends his hand to meet mine, then he follows up with a lift of our hands to his lips as he brushes them against my knuckles as if he is some Victorian nobleman. Theodore. His name is Theodore and this kiss on my skin that causes my cells to dance is the manifestation of the art I crafted after inspiration struck from the art of his dance. I was gifted the moment to witness it, just as I wished. I can’t help but wonder how many more pieces of art we can collaborate on together. I guess there's no way to really know, but I’m open to the dance. 


End file.
